four-four-seven-zero
by RobinRocks
Summary: Young men have a fierce, careless beauty; it's the something in them that makes them want to be soldiers, makes them want to kill. It has been bred into them, bloodline to bloodline, so that they value medals over sons. For the D-Day 70th anniversary.


So this was supposed to be for the 70th anniversary of D-Day precisely a week ago but I stupidly left my Alphasmart transfer wire at my friend's house and he had to mail it to me before I could upload this. T.T Sooooo it's very late...

_Deliberately_ does not have any speechmarks.

four-four-seven-zero

Everybody calls it my weather, England says complainingly. Oh, England, you and your terrible weather, spoiling good picnics.

Your weather is rather bad, all the same, France replies. But I do not expect that this is deliberate. A sly look. I can see that nobody wants to go as much as you.

Now they both pause. England rolls his eyes: what a ridiculous thing to say. America is there, at the map with Eisenhower, arms folded like a petulant teenager. The want in him is an invisible balloon, swelling, taking up all the air in the room. England, well, maybe he only wants war because it's what he's used to, a language he speaks, rust-coloured comfort. America, his is a young urge, boisterous, bloodthirsty. They were all like that once.

My apologies, France says indulgently. I forgot.

That he was here? England doesn't believe this, looking at the stretch of cracked paint over America's back. He has incredibly broad shoulders. He can take the weight. We can't do it without him.

France shrugs, examining his fingernails. England is annoyed.

You don't have to be a snob about it, he says coldly. It would be nice, wouldn't it, if we'd all just stand in formation and shoot at each other like we used to-

Don't be defensive, France interrupts calmly. It doesn't suit you. You're much better at attacking, Angleterre. Tonight you can wear your true colours again.

And you can wear some humility, England snaps. God knows you've swanned about my ankles since 1940 as though you're on a bloody holiday.

I suppose the many dangerous reconnaisance missions don't count. France gives him a bitter smile. Well, not to worry. If all goes well, I will be out of your very unkempt hair.

Not a moment too soon, either. But there is no real malice in any of these statements; they're too old, too tired, too ready to die for each other.

France has good cigarettes, god knows where he gets them from; but he's generous with them, at least, and they stop their mithering and light up. America and Eisenhower are before the vast 3D map of the French coast, pushing coloured blocks around. England watches him, his hands rather than his face. He's the type to use his hands a lot when he talks. Splayed fingers: explosion. Knuckles against his palm: ramming, maybe, or resistance. Fingers like pistols: gunfire. Probably there are sound effects. England feels like he should be disconcerted - or embarrassed, at the very least. He should chide him, tell him to stop acting so childishly. But that would be suggesting that he isn't taking it seriously - and that's not the case at all.

Are you proud of him? France asks. Strange question; neutral, loaded. England shrugs, exhaling smoke through his nose.

We'll see, he says, won't we.

* * *

Young men have a fierce, careless beauty; it's the something in them that makes them want to be soldiers, makes them want to kill. It has been bred into them, bloodline to bloodline, so that they value medals over sons.

Young nations, then, are much the same, savage and gold. America has their scent on him, newsprint and bubblegum and hair oil. He is amidst them, one of them. His fingers twist, his feet itch. He has been ready since 1941.

Have you decided? England, with Canada at his side, stops behind him.

Hm? America cranes his neck to look up at him; his issue rifle is across his lap, halfway-dismantled, gleaming with grease.

What you're doing. England resists the urge to roll his eyes. Tonight. Who you're going with. You'd better make a decision soon. The gliders will be going out soon.

To secure the bridge, right? Pegasus?

That's right. France is going with them.

Makes sense. He must be used to being dropped behind enemy lines by now. A touch of resentment.

If you want to go then go, England says. But you'd better get your skates on.

Mm. America tilts his head at Canada. How about you, bro?

Juno, Canada says simply. I'm going with my men.

America nods.

Okay. They don't mention Dieppe. Nobody needs to. You? This to England.

Sword.

You don't want to drop for the bridges?

Parachuting isn't my favourite thing. I'd rather go up the beach on foot. A wry smile. I suppose that's what I'm used to.

I guess. America puts his head down again, deftly putting his rifle back together. It slides and clicks under his expert hands.

Are you gonna decide? Canada is irritable. He actually has England's temper at times like this, decisive and ruthless. We're not waiting for you. Yeah, I will. No real commitment. I guess it doesn't matter much.

America stands up, stretching out his long body, leather creaking. His full height - when he doesn't slouch - is the same as Canada's. So is his face. Twins: the only time it has occurred in nations. Bad eyesight, too. They both need glasses. They are more like humans, raw bridges of skin and sinew.

When England looks at them, the immense weight of what is being asked settles on him. Mothers. They all have mothers.

They have other things, too, like eyes and brains and blood.

* * *

The ships at Dover rock, waiting. The weather is not good. There is the sour-sweet smell of vomit, salt, smoke, oil. England is perfectly at ease; for now this is the sort of war he's used to. Crowded ships are a comfort.

Later there will be real killing, but for now there is only killing time, postcard and letters, well-wishes, final words. How does a boy of nineteen summon everything he wants to say into such a small space?

(That space is shoulder-to-shoulder on a waiting battleship. There are at the edge of mercy where there are no postboxes. They will go in breastpockets, pressed close to hearts when the time comes. Some will never be read. Some, perhaps, may never need to be.)

England hasn't eaten for weeks, nor has he slept. He doesn't need to , none of them do when there's a war on. It makes them more efficient, these tireless, rationless beasts. He takes his cigarettes, though, twenty thin sticks in their cardboard pack, barely enough tobacco to fill five before 1939. He only has three left. Greed has to compensate elsewhere.

He doesn't know if America is off rations. He hasn't seen him eat anything in a while but it's not something they discuss. It's personal, invasive. Some nations aren't very good at it so it's rude to inquire, to judge.

America is chewing gum, in any case. He can blow bubbles with it, which England suspects is a skill he perfected solely to disgust him. He has a nickel, new and silver, which he flips tirelessly, slapping it against the back of his hand, peeking at the result. England feels that he is being deliberately annoying given that he's just loitering on this ship - one full of British troops. His own ships are much further down the coast.

Can't you go and hang around Eisenhower to do that? England asks, sinking down next to hiim.

Nah. Still deciding. America shows him the nickel. Heads, Omaha. Tails, Utah.

You've flipped it about fifty times.

Best out of a hundred.

Oh, for goodness' sake. England snatches the coin from him. It's warm and weighty in his palm. Right, heads, Omaha, tails, Utah. Pick one.

I dunno. America shrugs. Tails. ...No, heads, heads!

Alright. England doesn't make any show of it, flipping it and uncovering the result without ceremony. There.

Heads. America purses his lips.

You're going to Omaha.

Looks like it.

Well, if you don't want to then go to Utah, England says crossly, tossing the coin back at him. But please stop that. This has taken years of planning. Don't reduce it to the flip of a coin.

Sorry. I just can't decide, you know? I want to be everywhere. I want to support all of my men, every last one-

Well, you can only be in one place at a time. Even we are limited by brutal physics. England gives him a half-annoyed, half-affectionate knock to the skull. You'll just have to make it count.

America nods, blowing a distracted bubble. England gives him a revulsed look.

What? America pops the bubble, grins.

You know perfectly well what.

Sorry, mom. America prods at England's cheek. You're grouchy today.

Hm. England looks up at the neat squadrons of fighter and bombers blazing overhead. They'll be going to soften up the Normandy coastline, give the Allies half a chance. ...I suppose I don't feel too well.

You, seasick? America arches his eyebrows. Weren't you a pirate?

Privateer. England doesn't resist when America lays his head on his shoulder. I never said I was seasick.

Stick your fingers down your throat and throw up over the side, America says helpfully. I saw some of the guys doing it. Makes you feel better.

I doubt it. England makes a vague gesture towards the vast armada crowded all along his coastline. Besides, I am empty. I have nothing to lose.

* * *

Eight pounds of equipment. Nylon, leather, steel. Rifle, ammunition, bayonet: old-fashioned, maybe, but it gets the job done. Thompson sub-machine-gun, passed down the ranks (that's why they call the British soldiers 'Tommies'). Swimming tanks with rudders and canopies, flails and crabs designed to get over mines. Cromwells and Shermans and Churchills in cold lines. Lying in wait, Jeeps: classic square Willys MBs, purring on cool rubber. Spitfires, P-51 Mustangs, Avro Lancasters, B-52s, ready, ready. This is the inventory, quivering, ready to devour.

At the whistle, on the hour, get ready to run.

_sand_


End file.
